


Dark, Dark, Dark

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Creature Dean Winchester, M/M, Macabre, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 12:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14748476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Someone has been watching Castiel.





	Dark, Dark, Dark

**Author's Note:**

> re-mastered from a piece i previously published years ago in a different fandom.

Castiel can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. Everywhere he goes. Not just ‘ah, passersby happen to glance at me every now and again’ -- but a metaphysical stabbing, little pinpricks that travel up and down his spine, across his broad shoulders. Occasionally he’ll glance around, searching for anyone whose eyes might be lingering; but no one’s there. Everyone is in their own little world, not paying attention to someone so common as Castiel. 

Every time, he just shrugs his shoulders a little, rolls them until the pins and needles fall onto the floor by his feet, and then carries on. 

\--

Tonight it’s really hard to just shrug his shoulders and go about his business. He’s at the bar he waits part time at, a tray balanced expertly on the palm of his hand as he weaves through patrons, both sober and intoxicated. Dark slacks and white button-downs are the usual attire and don’t typically attract too much attention; he’s just the bringer of alcohol and most people tip him gratuitously because they’re pleased that he’s keeping up with their need for a top off. 

He hasn’t felt those invisible eyes on him at work before. It’s unnerving, because he’s starting to think that he’s imagining it; is he going schizophrenic? Paranoid? Great. That would be a lovely letter to write home.

When he turns around, he connects against someone solid and takes a step back to brace himself - he feels his tray slip off his palm and oh, yes, there go all the glasses, both full and empty, tumbling off the side. He closes his eyes and prepares to hear the ear-shattering sound of breaking glass that will attract every single patron’s attention, but… it never comes.

Warily, he opens his eyes, still frozen with his hand in the air. The man in front of him is holding the tray on his palm, all the glasses upright and unspilled, and Castiel blinks rapidly. There’s no way it should be like that. He had lost all physical contact with the tray, it was a goner- his wide eyes look up to his savior and first he sees a smile that glows iridescent under the black lights, and then-

“You’ve been following me,” Castiel blurts, and then slaps a hand over his mouth, mortified that he’d accused a stranger of such a thing. But the man’s eyes, they’re… like pins and needles. 

The man says nothing, freckled skin and light hair and twinkling emerald eyes as he hands the tray back over to Castiel, who struggles to take it without knocking anything over. The smile on his lips looks nearly sinister, but Castiel tells himself it’s just the light. 

“Th-thank you.” Castiel can’t remember the last time he stuttered. He’s not like this. At all. 

The man inclines his head in mockery of a bow, and then brushes past Castiel to disappear into the crowd.

Castiel doesn’t see him for the rest of the night.

He breaks three glasses behind the bar.

\--

“That’s kind of weird though, isn’t it?” Charlie isn’t nearly as sympathetic as Castiel was hoping she’d be. “You feel someone staring at you all the time then some random guy magically catches your doomed drink tray and doesn’t say anything? That’s _almost_ Disney prince material. Minus the creeper status.”

“I don’t know what he is,” Castiel says, chewing on his thumb, frowning at Charlie’s coffee table.

“Who,” Charlie says, a brow quirking.

“Hm?” Castiel removes his thumb, glancing up at Charlie, confused.

“You mean you don’t know _who_ he is,” Charlie says, slowly.

“Right.” Castiel stands up from Charlie’s couch, wringing his hands together idly.

“Do you feel unsafe?” Charlie asks. “You can stay here for a while. I’ve got a blow-up mattress and a Hunger Games sleeping bag with your name on it!”

Castiel shakes his head, “I don’t know what I feel.” 

Charlie takes a moment and then nods her head once, very slow and almost condescending. “Ok then… you know you’re welcome to stay here,” she says, this time seriously.

“Thanks,” Castiel offers a small smile, one that doesn’t show his teeth, before he slips on his shoes and leaves Charlie’s apartment.

He doesn’t feel any more at ease, but then again, he’s not sure what he was expecting. 

\--

Pins and needles dance up and down Castiel’s vertebrae, engaged in an intimate lambada winding through his spinal system and he’s pretty sure he’s going to turn into a paraplegic because his legs go numb. He ducks into an alley, resting against a building, trying to catch his breath. When he opens his eyes, the same man from the bar is standing in front of him.

Castiel’s voice gets caught in his throat.

The man’s hands reach up, planting on the building on either side of Castiel’s head. Castiel’s eyes wildly glance around - can’t anyone see them? Doesn’t anyone see a guy about to get mugged in an alley? Isn’t that what’s about to happen?

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the man says, and his voice is dark, dark, dark. Deep, a bottomless void, just like the depth of his jade eyes as Castiel stares fearfully into them. “I’ve been waiting for you to notice me.”

Castiel manages a strained, forced laugh, “Kind of hard to not notice when someone is following you all the time…”

“I’ve been following you for longer than you know,” the man says, lifting a hand. His knuckles gently brush over the apple of Castiel’s cheek and the slightly smaller man shudders, violently, though not from disgust or fear. This man’s hands are ice cold. “You have a choice.” Castiel’s eyes open from their half-lidded state, and he regards the other curiously. Is this when he decides what weapon the other uses to maim him with? He’ll go with a bullet straight to the eyeball, thanks. Quick and painless. The man’s expression changes, flutters into something unsure, before he pulls back. “You don’t trust me.”

Castiel wants to scream, but people still don’t notice the two men in the alley. He balls his fists at his sides, “Why should I?”

“You were the one who called for me, Cas,” the man says, the same smile from the bar tugging at the corners of his lips.

Castiel feels nauseous, “I didn’t-”

“Don’t make me your enemy, Cas,” the man coos, knuckles once again tracing over the subtle curve of Castiel’s stubbled cheek. His eyes look over Castiel’s features and Castiel feels like he’s going to burn alive from the inside out. “Think about it.”

Shadows seem to form at every angle despite it being the middle of a clear, sunny spring day and Castiel closes his eyes, shoulders hunching up, head turning to prepare for impact.

It doesn’t come.

When he opens his eyes, he’s alone.

\--

“Think about it…” Castiel is staring at his untouched cup of hot cocoa as he sits at his kitchen table at three in the morning. “What am I supposed to think about?” he runs his fingers through his thick, messy hair, trying to comfort himself.

The man knows Castiel’s name, probably his age, where he works and most likely where he lives. Castiel knows nothing about the other, aside from _dark dark dark_ , everything’s a black void save for his slightly sharpened teeth and the twinkle in his verdant eyes. Weird. Castiel shivers, bringing the cocoa up to his mouth. The only light in the apartment at this time is coming from above the stove, the tiny light sending a fluorescent glow over the linoleum and casting a few shadows. Castiel watches the shadows, and thinks about how they seemed to close in on him in the alley. And when they retreated, so had the man.

The shadows here don’t dance. They’re stationary. They don’t threaten to swallow him up, they don’t loom ominously.

Castiel swears he sees a flash of the man’s smile by the entrance to the living room.

He leaves his cocoa on the table and opts for some P.M. medication to knock him out for the rest of the night.

\--

Days go by and Castiel no longer feels like he’s being followed. That sensation is instead replaced by hallucinations; he sees the man in the crowd tenfold, like there are multiple copies of him planted in various places- walking dogs, smoking a cigarette, waiting tables. He’s everywhere. Castiel isn’t sure he likes this better than the invisible stalker sensation. He’s starting to feel a bit frayed around the edges; no matter how many times he closes his eyes, rubs his face, and opens them again, the man is still around. Everywhere. 

Castiel starts to loathe going outside, starts to get anxiety before getting involved in crowds. It’s affecting his personal life (when was the last time he went to the grocery store or hung out with friends?) and his work life (he’d forged a doctor’s note that said he has pneumonia and will be out for over a week), and he has no idea what to do about it. Maybe he _is_ turning into a nut. He has a distant uncle in an asylum somewhere, isn’t stuff like this hereditary to a degree?

He hasn’t left his apartment in days. Charlie’s texts go unanswered (‘are you ok?’ ‘did stalker man get you’ ‘ok this isn’t funny anymore cas, pls reply’), the shower hasn’t been used in more time than is considered healthy or hygienic. 

He sees the man everywhere. Even when he doesn’t see him, he sees him; in his dreams, reflected in his cocoa staring up at him with that dark, dark smile. 

How can a smile be so dark when his teeth are so white?, Castiel thinks deliriously at one point. 

\--

On the eighth day, Castiel gives in. He has to return to work tomorrow and he can’t go in like some tattered homeless man. He takes a shower, eats a real meal complete with meat and vegetables and four glasses of water. He dresses in comfy jeans and a sweater, and then sits down on his couch in the living room. With his hands placed on his knees, fingernails lightly scratching into the denim, he ignores the tiny prick of apprehension stinging at the base of his neck.

“I’ve made my choice.”

The television flickers on, static and white noise, and Castiel jumps in surprise. His eyes are wide as he watches the channels flip, that smile a subliminal message in the frames, and the apartment gets cold. Castiel can see his breath. He can’t move.

“You want to play?” the smile asks, the channels jumping between some drama and a variety show. His laughter mixes with the audience cheering and it sends chills down Castiel’s spine. “Have you figured out what I am?”

 _You mean you don’t know_ who _he is._

Castiel shakes his head. He has no idea. 

“Yet you are sure in your decision?” the man’s voice is distorted, and Castiel sees flashes of those twinkling, dark dark mossy eyes between frames. 

Castiel nods, one of his nails breaking on the scratch of his denim. 

The channels go static and Castiel stares at the black and white pepper waterfalling over the screen. The frames blip, black and green lines mix with red, like his tv is trying to find reception; through one of the black lines fingers appear, crawling out of the television. The lights in the apartment flicker. The fingers reach, twitching, the joints doubling and dislocating as they reach towards Castiel’s face. The arm has no elbow, no body, it just extends further and further and Castiel is frozen, unable to move from his position on the couch. As the hand gets closer, the distinct popping and cracking of the knuckles and bones in the wrist reach Castiel’s ears and he can’t close his eyes, he can’t stop watching-

The palm of the gnarled hand covers Castiel’s eyes and everything goes black.

Dark, dark, dark. 

\--

When he wakes up, the sun is spilling in through the blinds, tiger striping the sheets on his bed. Castiel groans and feels like he’s got the worst hangover in the world, as he rolls onto his side and blinks blearily at his alarm clock. Barely seven. His phone vibrates and he flings an arm to pick it up, reading the screen.

 **Charlie:** still on for lunch today? Rolling the dice at 3!

Castiel frowns. Game...? Ah. Tabletop. Their weekly D&D. He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, before checking the date on his phone. For some reason, he feels like he’s missed something. He’s pretty sure that, last time he checked his phone (or, well, ignored it), it was the tenth. It’s now the fourth. He either slept for four weeks, or maybe just _thought_ it was the tenth when he checked his phone?

 **Cas:** Yes, I will meet you at 2

He takes his time getting ready. His cupboards are full, his fridge is stocked fresh. He scratches his damp hair, more than confused. There’s a note on the fridge in handwriting he doesn’t recognize, _Milk, eggs, lube ;---)_ , and he wonders if Charlie had gotten ahold of his bumblebee sticky note pad again. 

Little things around the apartment let Castiel know that he’s been going to work, having a social life, keeping up on his laundry. There’s an extra set of shoes at the door and Castiel doesn’t drink beer, but there’s a six-pack in the fridge. Odd. There’s something nagging at the back of his head, and he ruffles his now dry hair once more, opening up the fridge to check it again. There’s a jar of something… pickled?, and he wonders if his mom sent a care package or even came by for a visit. What’s in the jar? He picks it up, turns it over. It looks like a chunk of pork. Pickled pork? Odd. 

Odd, odd, odd.

He’s wrapping his scarf around his neck when the sound of keys in the lock of his front door make him glance up. Why is Charlie coming over when he said he’d meet her?

The person that walks in isn’t Charlie.

Castiel nearly faints, his hand resting on the back of the couch.

“Hey,” the man greets with a bright smile, twinkling green eyes, freckled skin. “Charlie texted me about the game, are you ready to go? I just need to change,” he says, and he starts unbuttoning the shirt of the uniform he’s wearing. 

Castiel catches his nametag: Dean.

Dean?

“Dean?” he says it out loud, a bit dazed.

Dean arches a brow, pausing in unbuttoning his shirt. He moves over to Castiel, and Castiel flinches when Dean presses the back of his palm to Castiel’s forehead. 

Dean’s skin is cold as ice.

“You’ve still got a bit of a fever,” Dean says, frowning softly. “Are you up for going out? You had a hard time sleeping last night.”

Dean is talking like they shared a bed. Like they’re close. More than friends. 

Castiel slaps Dean’s hands away, “What _are_ you?”

Dean blinks, surprised, “What?”

Castiel takes a step back, his hip hitting the kitchen table, but he’s starting to panic too much to register the pain. “What have you done?”

The surprised look on Dean’s face melts away and it’s replaced with a sly smirk, dark around the edges and bright in the middle. His hand reaches out again, those gnarled, disembodied fingers heading straight towards Castiel’s chest.

Castiel lifts his hands, ready to defend himself, a scream building in the back of his throat--

\--he wakes up in his bed, drenched in cold sweat, sitting bolt upright and looking around his room frantically. 

He checks his phone; the eleventh. He flops back on his bed, and feels his chest heave with the beginnings of dry sobs. His hands cover his eyes, heels pressing into the sockets, trying to alleviate the growing hysteria inside of him.

It’s too dark in his room.

He turns on every light in his apartment before he unplugs every appliance, moving back to his bedroom to curl up in the blankets, eyes closed tight.

He dreams of nothing.

\--

When he wakes up again, he has no choice but to actually try and become a functioning human being once more. He’s wary to go outside - what will be waiting for him? - and he ends up calling Charlie.

“Dude,” Charlie sounds exasperated, angry, and worried all at once. “I’ve been fucking worried sick, I was about to break into your apartment. I almost called the cops, Cas, what happened?”

“That’d be a little extreme,” Castiel says flatly, stuffing his feet into a pair of shoes and wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Can you run some errands with me today?”

Thankfully, Charlie loses her anger and instead worries. Charlie has always been a good friend, no matter what her first impression had been (read: eccentric, and quite opposite of Castiel in fact), and she accompanies Castiel on his errands. She doesn’t ask about Castiel’s apparent stalker problem, doesn’t pry about where Castiel has been for _ten days straight_. 

At the grocer, Charlie helps Castiel pick out the usual healthy foods that Castiel usually chooses to eat. Charlie pulls faces at the vegetables and the rice and the tofu and granola and Castiel chides her, telling her that maybe she’d get more ladies if she ate healthier and got fit instead of flabby. Chicks dig yoga, Charlie agrees with a pleased grin.

At the checkout line, Castiel is busy opening up his wallet and trying to decide if he has enough cash or if he needs to pay with his debit card. Charlie’s elbow in his side has him frowning and he glances up at his friend, and then follows her distracted gaze.

The man scanning groceries is bright in the middle and dark, dark, dark around the edges.

Castiel wheezes. 

“He keeps looking at you,” Charlie says, quietly.

Castiel starts gathering his items off the belt, “Let’s go to a different checkstand.”

“Hey now,,” Charlie laughs, taking the items from Castiel’s grappling hands, putting them back on the conveyor belt. “He’s not bad looking, you should be flattered or something. When’s the last time you were hit on?”

Castiel’s feet are like lead when he comes up to the register, keeping his gaze averted from the cashier. 

Charlie engages in polite, but usual weird conversation, and reassures the man that no, they’re not a couple, and yes, Castiel is very available. Mortified, Castiel lifts his gaze to the cashier, his eyes catching the other’s name tag (Dean, Dean, _Dean_ ). and then he shakes his head.

“I’m-”

Charlie nudges him again and clears her throat loudly. “He’s like a snitch,” she says, and Castiel blinks. “You gotta catch him when he leasts expects it.”

Castiel turns to ask Charlie what the hell she’s on about, but instead of Charlie, Dean’s head is on his friend’s body. Castiel stumbles back, and Charlie’s voice calls, “Cas?”, but it’s Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes, Dean’s smile, Dean’s tshirt.

Castiel turns on his heel and leaves everything on the conveyor belt, bags and food and even his wallet, fleeing from the supermarket in a haze, before his body gives out and he collapses on the sidewalk.

He wakes up in his bed.

He screams into the emptiness of his apartment.

\--

Once more, he sits in front of his tv. He left it unplugged, but he knows it doesn’t need any power to work when he speaks, “What are you?”, directly at the black screen.

A few moments pass, and he wonders what he’s doing. Talking to his powerless tv. Another few moments pass, and he’s about to stand up and call the hospital and ask what it would take to be checked into the mental health ward, but the tv crackles to life, the white noise startling and making Castiel flinch.

The channels blip and switch and those lines scroll, but instead of fingers this time, eyes appear. First black, then red, then green, all over the screen, disappearing only to reappear again half a second later. 

“Am I going crazy?” Castiel whispers, and he feels so hopeless. “What do you want with me?”

The walls of his apartment vibrate and Castiel closes his eyes, only to have them fly open when a hand caresses the line of his jaw. Dean is right in front of him, flickering in and out of existence like the unplugged tv behind him, but his touch is so real, so cold.

“You’re mine,” Dean fizzles out of existence for a moment, before he’s standing solidly in front of Castiel. “I’ve searched for so long. Waited for your call.”

Castiel lets out a soft pant, eyes hooding as he looks up at Dean.

It’s the middle of the day but Castiel’s apartment gets swathed in darkness. He feels Dean everywhere; kissing over his neck, fingers dancing over his sides, the weight of him on his lap. It’s flashes of clothes being removed, Dean’s dark lips tracing over Castiel’s skin, leaving marks in his wake. Castiel can’t focus; he’s kissing back, his hands are touching a solid body, Dean is really here, Dean is _real_. Castiel’s fingers curl over Dean’s hips and he doesn’t know when or how it happens but he’s thrusting up into tight, deliciously wet heat, his head tipped back against the couch. 

Dean’s hands roam over Castiel’s chest and Castiel is too drunk with euphoria to take note of what he’s doing. There’s a dull, throbbing pain in his chest, and Castiel just squirms a little, his hips relentless as they fuck up into Dean’s writhing, perfect body. All he can see are Dean’s twinkling emerald eyes his bright smile - and the blood dripping down Dean’s chin, a neon beacon in the darkness. 

Castiel hands himself over.

He doesn’t wake up this time.

\--

“And you say he was… suffering from delusions before his death?” the detective asks, notepad and pen in hand as he interviews Charlie outside of Castiel’s apartment.

“Yeah,” Charlie’s eyes are rimmed red and puffy, and she can’t look inside where CSI is processing the scene. “I- I tried calling him, I came over once and he was just... I don’t know. Something was really wrong. He was convinced he had a stalker.”

The detective nods, writing everything down. He glances inside at the crime scene, and then writes a few more things down. He closes his notepad, and then pats Charlie sympathetically on his shoulder. “You did what you could, Charlie. Sometimes people are beyond help.”

Charlie shakes her head, rubs a hand over her face. “I should have stayed with him.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” the detective says, consolingly. He gives Charlie’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.”

Charlie nods, taking the dismissal. “Thank you, Detective Winchester.”

Detective Winchester flashes a smile, dark around the edges, bright in the middle. “Any time.”

\--

After the crime scene is vacated, Detective Winchester lets himself back in. Castiel’s body has been hauled away, but the scent of death and blood is still fresh, staining the couch, the floor, permeating the walls and making the neighbors sick.

He opens the refrigerator and grabs the mystery jar, unscrewing the lid and taking a whiff of the pungent smell of rotting meat. 

Castiel’s heart is his. 

Darkness encases the apartment, and _Dean Dean Dean_ puts his lips to the rim of the jar, taking a sip of the blood and bodily fluids it’s floating in. The heart is bright, like Dean’s smile, like the twinkle in his eyes. 

“Once you’re mine…” Dean murmurs into the darkness. He can feel Castiel’s soul lingering around, attached to the heart in the jar. “...there’s no going back.”

**Author's Note:**

> should write more fucked up shit, y/n?  
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes) for a good time you _don't_ have to pay for


End file.
